


A Sweet Story

by closette



Category: DCU
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Misunderstandings, Only fluff on Christmas, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21971452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closette/pseuds/closette
Summary: Someone in Wayne Manor bakes when he’s sad. This is the story of why the kitchen countertop is filled with dozens of cinnamon buns today.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 36
Kudos: 496





	1. A Sweet Story

Alfred comes home to a kitchen that smells like cinnamon, bread, and sugar; a large amount of it, if the heavy sweetness in the air is any indication.

He feels a pinch in between his eyebrows. Worry. It's forming a permanent groove over there on his forehead.

"Oh dear, whatever is the matter this time, Master Bruce?"

Bruce stills for a moment, bent awkwardly over a steaming batch he's taking out of the oven. He carefully lays down the baking pan on the countertop, laying it down to lie beside five other pans in various stages of cooling.

His boy seems oblivious to the fact that there are almost three dozen cinnamon buns adorning Alfred's marble countertop because he nonchalantly plops another pan into the oven.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Must we pretend that this is normal, everyday behavior for you?"

"You said I should pursue hobbies that's not "vigilantism and other forms of justice-seeking"; you should be happy I listen to you."

"We both know this isn't a 'hobby' so much as a reaction to something that bothered you."

Bruce stirs a bowl of frosting imperceptibly harder at that jab. "Nonsense, I just remembered the Ceylon cinnamon from Sri Lanka I brought home and wanted to put it to good use."

Alfred sighs. This is a closely guarded secret; the people who know can literally be counted on one hand. It would be fair to say that it's a better kept secret than the fact that Bruce Wayne is Batman, since more than five people know that one.

The secret? Whenever Bruce is stressed by something he cannot punch, throw money at, or detective his way into a solution; things that are almost certainly matters of a personal nature - he bakes. He either bakes incredibly complicated desserts (quality) or bakes a large amount (quantity), and as Alfred looks at the dozens of cinnamon buns already baked and are waiting to be baked, he wonders what could have possibly brought on this deluge.

As he also wonders if he could offer most of these to the Flash for easy and immediate dispatching without revealing the explosive fact that Batman bakes, his phone buzzes.

A text from Richard.  
  


_> > Just got the news. 😱 How's Bruce doing? Should I come over, take his mind off things?_

  
Alfred looks over at the man quietly prepping another batch with an intensity reserved for vigilante work.  
  


_< < Your father is filling my kitchen with inummerable cinnamon buns, and he does not look like he has plans to stop anytime soon._

_  
>> Oof that bad huh? Omw then. Save me some from Dami and Tim!! I know he got some Ceylon cinnamon last month!!_

_< < Even the three of you can't finish all of these and, most importantly, I will not allow you to.  
_ _< < What 'news' upset your father?_

_> > Figures its this one https:/themetropolisdaily.com/story/234890  
_ _> > ETA 1 hour!!!_

Alfred surreptitiously opens the link.

SUPERMAN PROPOSES TO MYSTERY WOMAN, the headline screams. Below is a grainy picture of Superman kneeling on one knee in front of a dark-haired woman that looks suspiciously like Lois Lane.

Well, the picture itself might be open to interpretation, but the next one is of the woman and Superman embracing in what looks to be in celebration. He promptly closes the link.

Oh dear, it's a good thing Richard is on his way, because he needs all the help he can get.

Alfred will show Bruce mercy by letting him bake as much as he wants. He'll deal with the logistics later.

* * *

Dick breathes in the smell of cinnamon from the front door, which is alarming, given that the kitchen is a long walk from the foyer.

He remembers the first time he sees Bruce bake; it's when he thoughtlessly shouted that he will never be his father then storming to his bedroom, their first major fight. Looking back, Bruce was just trying his best to take care of Dick as both his ward and Robin, in his usual overprotective manner. To hear him being accused of overstepping must have hurt him and made him doubt if he's doing a good enough job with Dick.

He couldn't sleep from the guilt, and he slinks off to apologize when the smell of coffee, rum, and sugar draws him to the kitchen.

"... Bruce?"

And there was The Batman, soaking lady fingers into espresso in the middle of the night. He was looking back at Dick warily.

"Hey chum. Can't sleep?"

"No." He fidgets, then all of his confused and guilty emotions rushes out. He never can hold a grudge, even back then. "I'm sorry Bruce, I know you were just being... I know you're not trying to replace my dad or anything, you're just looking out for me. I just feel weird sometimes about... all of this, feel angry for no reason."

Bruce shakes his head, but he stops looking so sad. "It's alright, you're allowed to grieve however way you want. We're in an unusual situation anyway."

He comes over and tugs at Bruce's shirt. "So we're okay?"

Bruce smiles, then flicks cream on his nose. "We were never not okay."

Dick grins and peers over the bowls of coffee, ladyfingers, and cream. "What're you making?"

"It's called tiramisu."

"I didn't know you baked."

"Sometimes."

"Why’re you baking now? At night?"

"Making good desserts is a precise process, keeps my mind focused and off of the things I'm feeling." Bruce replies, as he shakes out more ladyfingers from the package. "Any other task that requires this level of precision is most likely a matter of life or death, so I do this instead. A low stakes distraction, if you will."

Dick processes all of that, then replies, "That's an awfully long way to say you bake when you're sad."

"You're too smart for your own good."

"Can I have some?"

"This needs to chill overnight. Let's have it tomorrow with Alfred."

They talk as Bruce finishes lining the baking dish with espresso-soaked ladyfingers, and he shows Dick how to assemble the cake. He even got to help layer the rest of the ladyfingers with Bruce putting the batter on top. It was one of his fondest memories of them together.

He remembers that night whenever Bruce is unbearably the worst of himself; arrogant, manipulative, controlling. He reminds himself that the man stress bakes, and that thought gives him the glee to manage Bruce back to his baseline settings.

* * *

"Honestly, I thought you would've been baking macarons or a soufflé or some other equally pretentious pastry."

Bruce stops from whisking more frosting for his alarming number of cinnamon buns, and faces Dick.

"Why would you think that?"

Dick makes an exasperated noise. "Aw c'mon Bruce, don't give me that." He gets two mugs of coffee and plops them down the kitchen island, getting himself a bun along the way.

"Have you asked him if it's true?"

Bruce looks like he wants to pretend that nothing is bothering him, that he regularly spends hours of his precious, precious time baking batches of desserts that no one in this house can possibly finish, but then, he seemingly deflates and sits on the kitchen island with Dick.

"Of course not. That would imply I was interested in the answer."

"Then why are you despairing like this?"

"I texted him."

Silence.

"Bruce, we're so close to sounding like teenagers at a sleepover and I'll never forgive myself if that happens, so can you please just show me your convo?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

"Do you really want me to ask, "what did you say?" and then "what did he say?"" Dick replies.

He hands over phone.

_< < I just got the news. Congratulations Clark, I'm happy for you both._

_> > Thanks B! :) I didn't know you even knew about that! We're really happy about it too :D_

Aw man, Dick thinks.

"I thought they were broken up for good?"

"We both thought the same thing."

"The plan was going so well too."

Bruce grunts at that."It wasn't a plan so much as a promise to you to.. let things happen without stopping them."

"That's an awfully long way to say that I told you not to actively sabotage yourself."

And Dick knew Bruce tried his best to keep his promise. It was hard to explain without sounding there was manipulation involved, but after Clark and Lois' supposed breakup, his close friendship with Clark slowly evolved into a state that's better called a partnership, and Superman and Batman evolved in other's perceptions as a package, a working unit, rather than two available but separate options.

He guesses that Bruce has eased the stranglehold he keeps over the affection he has for Clark, and Clark was subconsciously responding to the sudden, available warmth that usually needed a special occasion to be felt. This plan for them to grow closer has been going so well.

"It really was going well." Dick mourns.

Silence.

"I thought so too." Bruce replies, whisper like.

Aw man, Dick thinks, as his heart clenches as bit. This engagement really hit Bruce hard; the one time he tries to be optimistic rather than paranoid and it still backfires.

Besides, what's the proper way to hurt over something that didn't even have a name other than a close friendship? And how can you begrudge a friend of his happiness? Bruce must be feeling like shit.

"Tell you what, gonna get rid of this coffee and dessert setup and replace it with lots of scotch." He squeezes Bruce's shoulder.

As he heads to the study to get the relatively cheaper bottles of Macallan, he hears a swoosh and a flap of a cape. He peers from the door to see Superman waving his arms around, frantic.

"Bruce, someone just sent me a link! It's not real! Well it's real but it's a really old picture, it's from way back when I first proposed to Lois!"

Bruce looks shocked, to say the least. But he can see the general weariness slowly leave his shoulders.

"Alright."

"I thought you were congratulating me about the award me and Jimmy got on our piece about the food banks in Metropolis!"

"I see."

Superman rubs the back of his neck. "So we're clear that I'm not engaged?"

"Very clear. I'm glad that you... got an award."

"Hey thanks! It's a local award, but it still feels really good to get it." Clark beams at Bruce, and Bruce smiles back. Dick wants to tear his hair out in frustration.

As their respective stress levels visibly decrease, finally Clark notices the dozens of cinnamon buns and bowls upon bowls of frosting adorning the kitchen counter.

"Why are there so many cinnamon buns here? Is someone holding a bake sale?"

Before Bruce can roll with the readily provided excuse and extend their pussy-footing around one another for another decade or so, Dick decides that enough is enough; this is the perfect time to disrupt the peace and allow them to move forward, and he loves them enough to sacrifice himself in the process.

He shouts from the hallway. "BRUCE BAKES WHEN HE'S REALLY SAD! THOSE ARE CINNAMON BUNS MADE OF STRESS AND SADNESS!"

He flees the hallway. In fact, he gets on his bike and drives away as fast as he can back to his safe house in Bludhaven.

He has no doubt Bruce will exact painful and creative revenge on him for revealing that Batman is a stress baker, but he can also imagine them right now. Clark asking why he was sad; Bruce unable to explain his way out of, what was it by then, four dozen buns and a manor that smells like a cinnabon bakery. But after Bruce gets over himself and wrangles a date with Clark, he'll for sure acknowledge that Dick is his best son, hands down, no contest.

He's really, really happy for them both.

He'll check in with Alfred later, remind him to set aside some buns for Dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this silly fic! This is part of my fight against toxic masculinity by going the opposite direction and making men cute and OOC instead. Is it helping? No? Okay.
> 
> UPDATE: needed to correct the process of creating tiramisu!


	2. The Buns Are Done At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A taste of cinnamon and vanilla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so very warmed by the response to my small baking one-shot, so here’s a tiny epilogue for you all. I hope you like it!

It was quiet in the moments after Dick's big reveal, the silence disturbed only by the fading rumble of a motorbike speeding away as fast as physically possible and the subdued ticking of a baking timer. He pictures it in his head like an action movie climax, the bike zooming away from a big explosion, but he pities the hero, because the 'explosion' will most surely follow him to Bludhaven sometime tomorrow.

All that will need to wait for tomorrow. If he’s right about all of this, today and tonight is Clark’s. He silently thanks Dick for his noble sacrifice, re-affirming his position as his favorite Robin.

"You bake, Bruce?"

And Bruce, who has been looking murderously at the hallway door where Dick skedaddled from, drinks the probably cold coffee in a slow series of gulps.

He’s buying time, Clark thinks fondly. He‘s taking his sweet time, probably running the different ways this conversation can go in that beautiful mind of his. He wonders what conclusion Bruce came to, because after sometime he replies with,

"Yes."

And Clark thinks Bruce is hoping that he’ll leave it at that. Nope, there’s too much to unpack here, and not just the fact that it's possible they were both in love with each other this whole time.

A pause. Then:

“That’s cut-“

“No.” Bruce grounds out.

 _That’s cute_ , Clarks thinks at him instead, and Bruce narrows his eyes at him as if he can read his thoughts. He gets his own mug of coffee, grabs a bun or five or actually he’s taking a whole pan now, they smell so heavenly.

"... You might want to reheat those first. It's gotten a bit cold."

So he heads over to the microwave,

"... I recommend you reheat it in the oven."

And the hidden affront in that voice diverts him to the smaller, countertop oven. A ding, and he gathers his supplies to sit with Bruce.

They look at each other, drinking coffee, with the smell of cinnamon and frosting permeating the kitchen, then his lungs, filling him with sweet, hopeful things.

Speaking of sweet things, Clark’s ignored these buns long enough. He takes a bite, and moans. "This is so _good_." Frosting that's not overwhelmingly sweet, sugar blending perfectly with an underlying taste of vanilla, bread that’s the kind of chewy soft without being flaky, and a rich cinnamon flavor that holds everything together. He closes his eyes to savor the flavors; of course Batman can bake perfection, because of course he does.

He sees Bruce staring at him intently, then clear his throat and reply, "Thank you."

"I didn't know you baked."

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes, like when you're sad? Is what Dick said true?"

"When I need to take my mind off of the things I'm... thinking about, I need an activity that requires precision but very low risk.” He shrugs. “It's either this or building ships in bottles, but that one was too quiet to be an effective distraction."

Clark processes all of that and decides not to point out it’s just a long way to say he bakes to keep himself from spiraling.

"Baking is just chemistry, and I have working knowledge of chemistry. It seemed the logical hobby.”

He refuses to be distracted by a discussion about other possible hobbies for Bruce, even though he’s itching to say that Bruce should give crocheting a try; instead he looks pointedly at the ridiculous amounts of pastries stockpiled on the countertop, the dirty bowls and dishes spread across the usually spotless kitchen, at the timer that stops with a loud ‘ding!’, and feels a smile creep up on his face.

“You were that sad huh?” Clark says, delighted at Bruce’s reaction to the fake news. Instead of answering, Bruce gets up to take the pan out of the oven, and Clark fills the silence by eating more perfect cinnamon buns.

Bruce comes back with another mug of coffee and leans on the kitchen island, relaxed and casual, if not for the way he turns his arisocratic nose upward and the way his eyes glint with challenge. “And if I was, what are you going to do about it?”

Clark grins, impressed at the parry. Of course, when his back’s to the wall and there’s no way out, Batman will always fight head on. What Batman doesn’t seem to realize is that this is most definitely not a battle. There are no losers here.

“Well, if you were, then I’d ask you to teach me how to bake.”

Bruce quirks an eyebrow at him, clearly not sure where he’s going with this.

“Normally I’d ask you out to coffee or dinner, but we’ve known each other for the better part of a decade now, so what would be the point? Hell, we were even body-swapped for three days once.”

Clark then steps close to Bruce, sees a bit of flour sprinkled in his hair, and raises a hand to dust it off slowly.

“So I’m hoping that you’d teach me how to bake too, and the next time you’re feeling sad-“

“I prefer the term ‘distracted’.”

“- wretched, really, downright spiraling, then I can be there with you.” He pauses. “Always, every time.”

Bruce looks at him for a long while, and then, replies with a simple. “You’re such a sap.” But the small smile that quirks his mouth was all the answer Clark needed.

He leans even closer until he tastes real vanilla and expensive cinnamon on Bruce’s lips.


End file.
